


The Shattered Gates

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Training, Collars, Fingering, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Object Insertion, Piercings, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Unwilling Arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21518002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Arran's people lost the war with the empire. His own personal battle is unlikely to go better."My lord subjugates opposition as a profession, not as an indulgence," Runjha says, and he sounds like he definitely believes it even if it's bullshit. "You will not go to his bed until you can treat it as a boon for which you are grateful."Not likely, Arran thinks, but he's naked on his knees in front of a man with a whip and knows better than to argue.
Relationships: Dutiful Slave Trainer noncons War Hero turned Sex Slave
Comments: 14
Kudos: 186
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	The Shattered Gates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



They say the Fates laugh loudest when a man thinks he can see their plans. What grand entertainment they must have had from Arran: a year ago he and his warriors were triumphant, storming Darghal Castle to topple an unjust king. Nine months ago they were desperately fighting to stave off the invasion of the Beryl Empire with forces already weakened by the civil war. Six months ago Arran lost an arm, the war, and his dignity in short order. And now...

Now he's back in the castle—the seat of the imperial governor—not as a liberator but as a plaything. Stripped of armor and weapons, perfumed and oiled, wearing gold rings through his nipples, his navel, and his cockhead. A gift to the governor from a merchant all too happy to collaborate with invaders who promised him lucrative orders.

After the audience at which he was presented to the governor, he was brought to a small, sparsely appointed but clean bedroom; it's nicer than most of the accommodations he's had since the collar was first locked round his throat, which makes things that much worse. He doesn't want to be grateful for any of this, not even for simple things like clean water and a dry mattress.

But a man can only pace for so long, and Arran tires more easily than he did a year ago. He is seated on the bed, trying to conserve his strength, when the door opens.

Governor Titus Nautius is a powerfully built man, badly scarred, a veteran of several wars himself. The man who enters the room is nothing like him: slender, fine-featured, with neatly braided black hair and skin the pale gray of marble. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, the blue-green livery of an imperial functionary, and a slave quirt coiled neatly at his belt.

"Kneel," the young man says crisply, sharp and certain enough to raise Arran's hackles, but six months of slavery have made Arran slower to pick fights. He slides off the bed and kneels on the floor, his balance still slightly compromised by his lost arm.

"My name is Runjha," the young man says, "and I oversee the training of the slaves in this house. You will address me as 'sir' or as 'overseer.'"

"Yes, sir," Arran says, when there's a pause to tell him he'd better acknowledge.

"Good. Take off your clothes."

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Arran asks, but he complies, pulling his loose shift over his head and tossing it aside.

"My lord values efficiency." Runjha looks him up and down like he's up for sale again, gaze lingering on the gold rings, the carefully shaven skin of Arran's cock and balls. _That_ had been an exercise in holding damn still and not fighting the man with the razor. "Now. You were presented as a pleasure slave, if one with an... unorthodox background." He looks at the remains of Arran's shoulder as he says that, but he doesn't seem put off by the scars. "Tell me about your training."

"Training?" It seems like an abrupt shift of subject. He's not here to be a warrior, and he'll never be the one he once was.

"In the arts of pleasure," Runjha clarifies. "How were you trained to please your master?"

"How much training does it take to be—" _raped_ , he doesn't say; it's true, but the empire is fond of pretty language for its ugly truths—"taken?" He's had plenty of experience with that in the last six months, and the governor probably won't be much worse than any of the others.

Runjha shakes his head. "Your previous owner was a fool." He takes off his gloves and tucks them in his belt. "You will be trained here, then. If you can learn to perform, my lord may still enjoy you."

Arran doesn't say what he's thinking but it must show on his face. He's still not good at pretending he's fine with all of this.

"You wonder why it matters, why he wouldn't simply overpower you and have you by force?" 

"To put it bluntly," Arran says. "Sir."

Remembering the title earns him a little smile. "My lord subjugates opposition as a profession, not as an indulgence," Runjha says, and he sounds like he definitely believes it even if it's bullshit. "You will not go to his bed until you can treat his cock as a boon for which you are grateful."

_Not likely_ , Arran thinks, but he's naked on his knees in front of a man with a whip and knows better than to argue.

"Good," Runjha says, as though he knows the deliberate choice Arran made in staying quiet. "No sense in wasting time; we'll begin your training now. Back up on the bed."

Arran bites back the frustration at being told to get back up only minutes after being told to get down on the floor. He recognizes the technique from squad leaders drilling raw recruits; you make a man follow pointless orders enough times without letting him ask questions, he'll learn to follow orders just because they're given. It must work even on a man who sees it for what it is, because he's kneeling on the bed, watching Runjha watch him move. At least the trainer's fairly slight—if his cock's a match for the rest of him, it won't do too much harm.

"Turn over for me," Runjha says. "Elbow and knees." He slides open a panel by the head of the bed and draws a short chain from it, which he locks to Arran's collar as soon as he's in position.

"Don't trust me to be tame?" The chain isn't quite long enough to let Arran sit all the way up, even if he pressed close to the wall. He could lie prone, or he can assume a variety of submissive positions, but he can't get meaningful leverage.

"I don't want to be distracted." Runjha has stepped away from the bed to retrieve something from the little chest of drawers on the table opposite. "We'll see how quickly you earn the privilege of training without it."

For any man to be told it's a _privilege_ not to be in chains—Arran breathes through the frustration, looking for a distraction of his own. He rolls his left shoulder, the scar tissue pulling as he moves. "Is the governor not insulted to be given damaged goods?"

Runjha looks up from the drawer he's rummaging through. "Perhaps he would be if you were just anyone, Arran Kingslayer. But no, in this instance I don't think he minds."

Arran's stomach rolls over. He should have suspected that was part of the reason for offering him up when he's so obviously not suited to being a bed slave. He's a trophy. A souvenir of a conquest the empire won easily thanks to his people's thirst for freedom.

As if he hasn't just punched the wind out of Arran without even a touch, Runjha comes back and sets down the things from the drawer beside Arran's hand on the bed: smooth, polished shapes in different colors of exotic stone, from the empire's aquamarine to familar leopard jasper. They vary in size but all have the familiar shape of an erect cock. So much for Runjha's slight build working in Arran's favor.

The mattress dips slightly as Runjha climbs up behind Arran and settles between his knees. Arran clenches his fist and lets his head fall. He can endure this. He's been through worse.

"The stoic sufferer," Runjha says, palming Arran's ass with one hand and spreading his cheeks to examine him. "Not surprising, but not something that will excite my lord."

_Vultures take your lord_ , Arran doesn't say. "What do you expect? You can't make a man love being forced."

"With dedication and the right incentive, you can make a man love almost anything," Runjha says, and if that's not a conqueror's approach to fucking then Arran doesn't know what is.

Runjha's fingers stroke the crack of his ass, slick with oil, weirdly gentle. He expects them to breach his hole any moment, but it keeps not happening.

"You're not going to make me want it," Arran says eventually. "Just do it already."

"You really haven't been trained in anything," Runjha observes, without altering that teasing lover's touch. "I'll overlook it once, but know that giving orders to your superiors will earn you the whip in the future."

Arran shudders. The imperials are known for being merciless with their slaves, and the governor's household probably sets the example the rest of them follow. "It won't happen again. Sir." He wants to squirm, to pull away, and tries to stifle the urge. It's not that the anticipation is worse than being raped—not even close—but it's drawing the whole thing out longer, making him dwell on it in a way that being shoved up against the wall of a cell didn't. "What can I— _is_ there anything I can do to get you to go ahead?"

Runjha's free hand strokes his flank as if he's a well-behaved hound. "That's better." He almost presses in, then relents at the last instant. "Relax your guard," he says. "You are not a fortress with gates barred against invasion."

All of Darghal's gates shattered eventually, and the invasion couldn't be stopped. Arran breathes. He's already defeated; he's only being asked to surrender. He closes his eyes, trying to let go of some of the wary tension in his posture.

"There," Runjha says in quiet satisfaction. He pushes, and there's barely a twinge of pain as two of his fingers slide into Arran's ass. The pressure is still strange and unnatural, as always, but that was so _easy_ it makes Arran's face hot with shame. 

"You should choose one of the toys," Runjha continues, as he sinks his fingers in to the knuckle. "Stone is cold compared to a man's flesh. If you warm it in your hand, it'll be easier to take." He rocks his hand as he speaks, slow and easy as if he's miming how lovers fuck, and there's so much slick it makes obscene noises on each stroke.

Arran looks at the stone phalli arranged on the bed. The two smallest ones are in shades of the empire's blue-green and despite knowing how meaningless it is he can't bring himself to touch them. There's one only a little larger that's an inoffensive dusty rose. 

To reach for it, he has to shift his weight back into his hips, pushing himself onto Runjha's fingers, balancing with the flex of back and thighs for long enough to grab the stone. Shifting the pressure himself like that is strange, and not nearly as unpleasant as it could be.

"Good choice," Runjha says, and Arran reminds himself not to care about his approval. "Hold that for a few minutes while we get you ready for it."

"Yes, sir," Arrran says. Maybe cooperating will get him through what resistance won't.

Runjha hums in satisfaction. His fingers rock, twist, push, making Arran all too aware of how sensitive his rim can be without hurting him. It's tender and strange but it should feel much worse than it does.

And then Runjha slips his other hand between Arran's legs to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm. Arran swears breathlessly and his cock twitches, and that, too, makes the pressure inside him change subtly. Runjha slides another finger into his ass and keeps teasing his balls and slowly his cock starts to thicken. He wants to curse, wants to kick out at this man who doesn't have the decency to just rape him and be done with it—but it's too late for that and he knows it. The enemy isn't at the gates anymore.

"Mmm. And this?" Runjha says, crooking his fingers and rubbing more deliberately against Arran's inner walls. Arran's thighs tremble and his back arches, sensation thrumming unwelcome through his nerves.

"Don't," he gasps, as Runjha strokes him there again and a bead of precome wells at the tip of his cock, glistening against the ring. "Please," he adds, hoping that won't count as trying to give an order.

Runjha ignores him in any case, hands still working steadily on his balls and in his ass. It isn't _good_ and he doesn't want it but it's been long months since anyone touched him in any pleasurable way and his body is betraying him. Runjha starts alternating those caresses to his balls with a few steady strokes for his cock, making his hips buck helplessly. His breathing comes shallower, sharper, and the tremors run through his limbs more often. He's so close, and he wants it to stop but the needy shameful part of him wants it to stop only after he's had a chance to come.

So of course Runjha lets go of his cock and stills those maddening fingers in his ass. "You should be ready for the toy now. Hand it to me."

Damn him, he has to know how difficult that is. Arran swears, rocking back onto Runjha's hand as he takes his weight off his arm to reach back. The heavy stone is lifted out of his hand and then Runjha's fingers slip free of his asshole, and for a moment the emptiness is disorienting, not normal.

"Keep breathing," Runjha says as he presses the tip of the stone phallus against Arran's hole.

"I hate this," grits out. He hasn't been forbidden honesty. "I hate you. _Fuck_ ," that last when the head of the damned thing presses past his rim and into him, heavy as no man's cock has ever been, solid and utterly unyielding.

"Do you?" Runjha murmurs. "Or do you hate that your body accepts what your mind cannot?" He slides it deeper, smooth and breathtakingly hard, and it's too much to stand even before he angles it to punish the same spot he tormented with his fingers.

"Stop it," Arran pleads, clutching at the sheet under him. "Please—please, just take what you want, don't make me—"

"You don't get to bargain." Runjha reaches between his legs and takes hold of his cock again. "You don't get to choose. This is your duty, and you will submit to it."

Arran wants so badly for that not to be true, for there to be a way out, for there to be options, but his options ran through his fingers like sand months ago and now this is what's left to him: being fucked on a piece of stone by a man who sees him as livestock to break, his traitorous cock stiff and leaking for any touch at all. Runjha's deft fingers flick over his cockhead, teasing the ring, and that's the moment he loses control utterly, his hole clutching tight at the invasion buried inside him and his muscles rippling around it as he spills.

It goes on so long it hurts, so long he starts trying fruitlessly to struggle. When Runjha finally releases his cock and lets the climax end, Arran is trembling in all of his limbs and can barely hold himself up.

"A good start," Runjha says approvingly. Arran is too ashamed to argue. Runjha slides the stone phallus out of him slowly, then strokes his stretched hole, the way he would pet a horse that had just taken a difficult jump without faltering. "Seems you do have promise after all."

Arran doesn't want his approval, but where's the use in saying so? He stays where he is, waiting for the next indignity.

But instead of fucking him Runjha gets up off the bed and straightens his clothes. "We'll have one more session later this evening, and that'll do for you first day. Pick one of the others and warm it while I'm gone."

Arran looks over wondering if maybe he misjudged and Runjha has no interest—but no, there's a clear bulge in the front of those trousers that wasn't there before. "So obedient to your lord you don't even fuck without permission?"

" _Our_ lord," Runjha says. "I have his leave to do whatever I deem necessary to improve his property. When you reach a point where taking men's cocks will improve you, instead of making you more stubborn, I will make sure you get plenty of them." He smiles. "Now get some rest. You'll have your second session in a few hours, and if you perform as well again, you'll have supper after."

He puts his gloves back on and walks out without undoing the chain. There's slack enough for Arran to lie down, so long as he stays put, and he can just avoid the mess his release made on the sheets. His ass aches and his limbs feel wobbly but by far the worst bruised is his pride.

The gates to the fortress are shattered, and he's just had his first glimpse at what it will be like to have the empire at home inside.


End file.
